


A Bunch of Violets

by Corvidology



Series: Meet the Holmes family [6]
Category: Person of Interest (TV), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crossover, Humor, M/M, Meet the Family, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-11
Updated: 2018-03-11
Packaged: 2019-03-29 23:02:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13937295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corvidology/pseuds/Corvidology
Summary: I started writing this series of crossover stories in April, 2012, the first in answer to a challenge from a friend who asked for: Mycroft Holmes, Harold Finch and otter spotting.The last one of the five stories already in this series was written in June, 2013 – although it turned out to actually be the first story in the series... Yeah.Needless to say, in the years since then the canons of bothPerson of InterestandSherlockhave completely jossed my storyline and characters. We hadn't even met Sherlock's mother yet in canon when I created my version of Mrs. Holmes.Still, I'd always meant to finish this series and here's the last story, five years later, continuing on with its jossed canon and all... which I suppose at this point makes it AU: canon divergent for both canons.





	A Bunch of Violets

The last time John had been this nervous he'd been meeting Kara Stanton for the first time and that hadn’t gone well. He glanced at his reflection in the airport bathroom mirror, straightening his already straight tie. Finch had been astonished to see him wearing one but then he didn't know how many ways you could kill a person with a tie. John was as ready as he was ever going to get. 

Finch glanced at him, clutching tighter at the small bunch of flowers in his hand before turning his attention to the private jet coming to a stop in front of them. Finch hadn’t met his eyes in a week but he'd hoped if he just gave him time— the plane door opening distracted him.

The pilot unfolded the steps and then offered Mrs. Holmes his hand as she slowly descended from the plane followed closely by her sons, both talking on their cell phones, and John Watson, who paused at the top of the stairs to yawn and stretch.

“Harold!” She took the bunch of flowers from him. “Violets! How lovely and so very thoughtful of you.” 

“It’s good to see you, Aunt Violet.” 

He envied the affectionate hug between Finch and his aunt, the flowers crushed between them.

Finch turned towards him, a faint imprint of Aunt Violet’s lipstick on his cheek, a few stray flower petals stuck to his tie. “You remember my associate, Mr. Reese.”

“All too well.” 

He never saw it coming. One minute he had his hand out ready to take hers and the next he was sprawled on his ass on the runway, clutching at his throbbing jaw, feeling lucky that she hadn’t dislocated it. If Mrs. Holmes wanted a future in boxing she could be the lightweight champion of the world.

“John, are you all right, I—” 

Aunt Violet took Finch's arm and started leading him away towards the waiting limousines. 

“Come, Harold, we will take the first car so we may talk in private and the boys can scrape _that_ off the tarmac and follow in the second car.”

He sat stunned on the cold damp concrete watching them drive away.

It was Watson who offered him a hand up, steadying him and pushing John's hands aside to gently feel along the line of his jaw. “You’re lucky, the last time she did that she broke Anderson’s jaw.”

Mycroft was still on his cell phone and Sherlock was on his hands and knees, staring through a magnifying glass at something on the runway. 

Watson took his elbow. “C’mon, there’s probably some ice in the limo and it’ll be a while before the brains trust is ready to leave.” 

 

Inside the limo, Watson dug a large cloth napkin out from under a small selection of snacks and filled it with ice, twisting the ends together to seal it. He carefully applied it to John's jaw. 

"Hold it here for a few minutes. I know it's cold but it will reduce swelling and prevent—" Watson stopped speaking as he met John's eyes. "Sorry, force of habit, with your background you know all this already." 

His eyes narrowed but Watson just grinned at him.

"You cannot keep secrets from the Holmes family." Watson held up a bottle of water and when John nodded slightly, he passed it to him before getting one for himself as well. "You'd do well to remember that."

Watson's face was an open book. John had done something to cross the Holmes family, like he couldn't have already guessed from Mrs. Holmes's 'warm' greeting, but what? 

"What do they think I've—"

The Holmes brothers getting in to the limo stopped him dead. Sherlock chivvied Watson in to moving over to sit beside John and the brothers ended up sitting across from him, Sherlock glowering and Mycroft looking right through him. As the limo pulled out of the airport, Mycroft finally made eye contact. 

"We are staying at The Plaza. May we drop you somewhere?" Mycroft's vocal tone added 'preferably in a concrete overcoat.'

"If Finch has gone to the Plaza then that's where I'm going." His tone added 'over your dead bodies if necessary.'

Mycroft quirked one eyebrow at him — he wondered what it was with this family and eyebrow semaphore — before saying, "As you wish."

 

He was familiar with The Plaza. What he hadn't expected but really should have was the senior hotel management falling over themselves in welcoming the family before personally conducting them to the Royal Plaza Suite. Twice the size of his generously sized apartment, he'd never seen a hotel room like it before. 

"Harold and mummy are in the living room, that way, past the study and dining room." Mycroft turned in the opposite direction, a bellman with a cart full of luggage following him. 

Sherlock and Watson turned back towards the door. 

"Where are you going?"

Sherlock kept walking but Watson stopped and turned back. "This suite only has three bedrooms and Mrs. Holmes wants Harold to stay with her so we're staying down the hall." Watson hesitated but then continued. "Word to the wise, because of the wedding this hotel is currently riddled with the family. Watch your back." 

They were there for a wedding? He was torn between following Watson to pry more information out of him and finding Finch. There really was no contest.

 

Finch and Mrs. Holmes were sitting close together on an antique velvet couch with a full tea tray set on the coffee table in front of them. Mrs. Holmes was cupping Finch's face with one gentle hand and speaking to him too quietly for John to hear, the immensity of the room meaning he was still quite a distance away. Not sure if he should intrude on such a private moment, he was about to retreat when Finch spotted him. He must have tensed under Mrs. Holmes's hand because she dropped it and turned to face John. 

"Will you please go and find Mycroft for me, Harold?" She paused while Finch, with obvious reluctance, stood up. "I need to find out what our schedule looks like for this evening and he mentioned needing your help." 

As Finch reached the doorway, he turned to follow him. 

"Mr. Reese, if I might have a moment of your time."

Finch looked from one to the other of them, obviously agitated.

"I promise not to hit him again, Harold." 

Finch still looked concerned. 

"I just wish to speak to him about the wedding plans, nothing more, you have my word."

Finch left and John crossed the room, relieved when Mrs. Holmes gestured to an armchair across from her. If she made a move from that distance he'd be able to see it coming. 

"Tea, Mr. Reese?"

"Black, thank you, Mrs. Holmes." His mama would have been proud. 

She lifted a cup and saucer, poured tea from a silver pot and presented it to him with a completely steady hand. In present company, he wasn't sure he could have duplicated it. She offered a plate of small cookies and pastries which she set down again when he politely refused. 

"Despite the obvious inherent dangers, Harold was kind enough to indulge an old woman's wishes—"

John snorted and she inclined her head slightly in recognition of the unspoken compliment before continuing.

"— and has agreed to attend his cousin's wedding this weekend, here at The Plaza." 

How was he supposed to keep Finch safe in The Plaza? It wasn't the sort of place that took kindly to people lurking around outside and inside it was immense. The wedding would be in private rooms and—

"I'm inviting you to the wedding, Mr. Reese, so you can stop calculating how to man the battlements. Harold will be my partner for the festivities as Sherlock and Mycroft are part of the wedding party, but I'll make sure you're seated at a near-by table. I am awfully sorry that I cannot allow you to bring a guest."

He didn't understand why she thought he'd want to but he didn't want to push his luck by asking. 

"I'm sure you understand that the less people who know of Harold's family connections the better. Needless to say, he will not be in any of the published wedding photographs." 

She stood up and he put his teacup down and followed suit, recognizing a tacit dismissal when he saw one. When she held out her hand he flinched before taking it and a smile briefly crossed her lips. 

"I'm sorry for the earlier misunderstanding, Mr. Reese. See you this evening." 

 

Mycroft was in the study, staring at his laptop screen while talking on his cell phone. He gestured for John to come in, saying "Of course, mummy" before ending his call. 

"Harold's gone to make sure the groomsmen are suitably attired." Mycroft extracted a page from the folder in front of him. "Here's a copy of the itinerary. If you inquire at the front desk they'll have a room key ready for you."

"I'll just sleep on Finch's floor." It was long past time to find out what was going on with Finch. 

"Suitable clothing will be delivered to _your_ room this afternoon. See you at the wedding." 

John would have pressed the point but he'd only just made the guest list by the skin of his teeth and then only because Mrs. Holmes didn't trust anyone else as much as she trusted him to protect Finch. 

He rubbed his still aching jaw as he took the elevator down. She probably could have handled any eventuality herself. 

 

At a loose end, he collected his room key from the desk and made a careful tour of the hotel, checking all entrances and emergency exits and picking the best places to sit in the lobby, the Champagne Bar – _8:00pm: Cocktails in the Champagne Bar_ ¬– and the restaurants in order to have the clearest vantage point. 

At 4:00pm, he called Finch to check in. He wasn't even fooling himself with that one. He just wanted to be in Finch's company, restless that he didn't know exactly where he was. 

"I can't really talk now, Mr. Reese, it's an emergency. The tailor sent clip-on bowties!" 

He smiled at the outrage in Finch's voice. "Can I help?"

"No, thank you... in fact, there's no real need for you to attend any of this, Mr. Reese. I'm sure you have other company you'd — better ways to be spending a rare day off."

And there is was again. Finch had been off-balance when John had made his move but had obviously since come to his senses. He couldn't fault Finch for that, he knew far too much about John to feel otherwise, but he didn't have to try and pawn him off. He'd be content if things could just go back to the way they were before he'd kissed Finch. It would never be enough for him but still more than he'd ever felt he'd had the right to expect. "I'll see you at the wedding." He hung up before Finch could tell him again to leave.

 

Awaiting him in his hotel room was a bespoke tuxedo, along with a dress shirt, bowtie, underwear, socks and handmade dress shoes, all in the correct sizes, along with a well-stocked shaving kit. Everything he needed to blend in with the family. Thoughts of the family inevitably turned to thoughts of Harold dressed in a similar fashion and how he'd love to slowly peel him out of it. He'd picked up the shaving kit, intent on jerking off in the shower to one of his favorite fantasies, when he thought better of it. Instead, he called down to the concierge desk to find out how close the nearest barber shop was. 

An hour later he was back at the hotel, hair freshly trimmed and with the close shave you could only really get with an old fashioned straight razor. He knew his reasons had been petty, to remind Finch what he was passing on, but he was still feeling pretty good as he walked in through the lobby. 

Mycroft was standing with three very attractive young women, all with the same pale grey eyes as Mrs. Holmes. 

"My cousins, Ms. Violet Forrester, the bride-to-be and her sisters, Ms. Lily and Ms. Rose, her maids of honor. May I introduce Mr. John Reese, Harold's... business associate?"

Violet had started to offer her hand and he'd moved forward to take it but instead she slapped him hard enough to rock him back slightly on his heels. 

"What's he doing here?" she hissed at Mycroft as he led her quickly away towards the elevator, her sisters glaring daggers at John as they followed along. 

It promised to be a fun evening. 

 

The wedding had been beautiful, the bride radiant, but he'd only had eyes for the immaculately dressed Harold as he'd escorted his aunt up the aisle. 

The cocktail hour had been chillier than its ice sculptures, the family deftly conspiring to keep John at a distance from Harold. Then to add insult to injury, the cherubic little flower girl who couldn't have been more than five years old had kicked him hard in the shin and looked set to do so again before her mother scooped her struggling little body up into her arms, saying only "little Violet is very fond of Harold," no further explanation or apology offered. 

It wasn't the worst evening he'd ever had. By his count, he'd survived torture on five separate occasions and at least four of those nights had been worse than this one. He'd been slapped a couple of more times, little Miss Violet had managed to kick him in his other shin and the bride had 'accidentally' elbowed him hard in the ribs. 

Dinner in the ballroom had been a relief, sat as he was with members of the groom's family who didn't have a single Violet among them, the table close enough to Harold and his aunt that he could easily watch over him. 

The speeches made and dinner finished, a great jazz combo started playing and several of the older guests got up to dance. He was suddenly taken with a very bad idea and as he wasn't in the habit of ever ignoring one he crossed to Mrs. Holmes's table and placed his hand lightly on Harold's shoulder. "Dance with me."

Harold went wide-eyed in shock. "... I think I better not, my leg—"

"Nonsense, Harold. You should dance with Mr. Reese before someone in the family succeeds in maiming him and the poor man is never able to dance again." 

Aunt Violet had spoken and that was that. She winked at him as Harold stood up and slowly led the way to the dance floor. 

The band was playing a beautiful slow version of 'All the Things You Are' but they didn't really dance, barely shuffling around in a small circle, conscious of Harold's limitations. He was content to have him in his arms, to be able to 'accidentally' brush his cheek against Harold's hair, smell his subtle cologne and press his hand into the small of Harold's back, right above where that perfect bubble butt started. The song was over too soon and despite John wanting to hold on to him longer Harold stepped back and he let him. "Thank you, Mr. Reese."

He trailed Harold back to the table. As Harold sat down, Aunt Violet stood. "If you wouldn't mind, Mr. Reese, I love this song." She took John's hand. "Soon the band will give way to a DJ for the benefit of the younger guests." He bowed his head and tucked her hand under his arm, leading her out on to floor where they took a few turns around the room while the band played 'The Lady is a Tramp.' It would have been more enjoyable if the youngest Violet hadn't pointed a 'finger gun' at him every time they passed her table but his shins were grateful that she kept her distance. 

 

The room door slowly opened, just far enough for Finch to ease his way through it and then close it, slipping the deadbolt into place. He leaned back heavily against the door, pulled his bow tie loose and closed his eyes, sighing heavily. 

"Hard day, Finch?"

"Yes." Finch's eyes flew open. "Mr. Reese. How did you get in here?"

John switched on the table lamp next to the comfortable armchair he'd been waiting in for the last thirty minutes. "Guess."

Harold blinked in the light before his brow furrowed. "Aunt Violet."

 

She'd tucked a piece of paper with the room's access code written on it into John's jacket pocket while they were dancing, murmuring "don't screw it up this time." 

 

"Aunt Violet it was." John shifted in the armchair, resisting the urge to stand up, conscious of how he'd be looming over Harold in the remaining furniture-free space even though the bedroom was large. "She seems to think we can fix this."

Harold moved away from the door, skirting the end of the bed to sit in the desk chair. "There's nothing to fix, Mr. Reese, 'a kiss is just a kiss' as the old song goes. It's just a simple misapprehension." 

Misapprehension? It was as John had feared but he wouldn't lose everything, couldn't.

Harold removed his tie completely, folding it carefully and placing it on the desk. "I'm very tired and if you wouldn't mind—"

"So you thought better about it, no surprise there. No one in their right mind would ever choose me and you're the smartest person I've ever met. You don't have to avoid me, Finch, I'll behave."

"What? You're the one who— You made no attempt to—" Harold spluttering was unusual and unfairly endearing given how he already felt about him.

"You were injured and scared and I wanted to give you time to recover, to be completely sure about what you wanted."

"That doesn't explain Ms. Morgan." Harold had that look he got when he'd let slip something he shouldn't have.

"What about Zoe?"

"... I tracked your phone Tuesday morning, hoping you might have breakfast with me as we hadn't seen each other at all on Monday. You were kissing Ms. Morgan goodbye outside the Whitby Hotel. Passionately." Harold wasn't meeting his eyes. "Not of course that I have any valid claim on your affections at all. I'm sorry that it took a while to convince Aunt Violet of that."

Under the circumstances, he was lucky Aunt Violet hadn't skinned him alive as he was certain she knew the correct piece of silverware to use for the job.

"It didn't mean anything, Harold."

"I'm not comfortable with... I have no right to an opinion on the matter." An inarticulate Harold was an undiscovered country, one full of hope for John.

"I owed Zoe a favor and she called it in." He ignored the doubt on Harold's face, too happy at discovering Harold's change of heart wasn't insurmountable after all. "We spent the night playing cards, just cards, Harold, until Zoe sneaked out via the housekeeping elevator for a few hours to do who knows what. I certainly wasn't going to ask. The kiss that morning was to publicly reinforce her alibi. I don't cheat, Harold, ever." 

"It wouldn't have been—"

"It would've been to me."

"I shouldn't have leapt to conclusions without talking to you. I just couldn't believe you might actually want me and only me, the way I want you. I'm sorry, John."

"Don't be. I could have done without the attack of the Violets but now I know I have the right to do this." 

He moved fast, going to his knees in front of Harold and kissing him thoroughly, careful not to put too much pressure on his neck. When Harold moaned against him he stood up, drawing Harold up with him and turning them both so Harold was sitting on the bed as he went back to his knees. Harold leaned forward to continue the kiss but he bypassed those tempting lips, instead carefully untying Harold's shoes and removing his socks, caressing his feet, momentarily lost in the sensation of touching any part of Harold's naked skin. 

"John, I—" 

He kissed his name off Harold's mouth, slowly coaxing and aiding him backwards and up onto the bed until he was laid out like John's prize. 

His own shoes were toed off along with his socks as his jacket hit the floor.

"Please slow down, John. I've imagined this so many times and now that it's real I want to savor it." 

He loved the raw hunger on Harold's face so despite his own intense need now that he was free to touch he removed his bow tie and shirt slowly, lingering over every button, fingers skimming and scraping over his own chest, pinching his nipples, as Harold avidly followed every movement. Shirt and tie discarded, he unfastened his dress pants, pushing them down until they fell to the floor. He rubbed his erection lightly where it pushed hard against the gaping waistband of his black briefs, before pulling them carefully down and off, standing naked caressing himself, performing for Harold who was watching every movement of his hand, unconsciously licking his lips. 

Harold was the first to fold and he started to move back down the bed towards him. He climbed quickly onto the bed to prevent it, straddling Harold and bending forward to kiss him again, hands busy with the buttons on his fly, the task made more difficult by the hard cock straining against the material. Finally he freed Harold from the fabric, his brain almost shorting out as he thought of all the possibilities. As usual, Harold was one step ahead. 

"John." Harold sucked his fingers lasciviously and beckoned and John moved up over him, until his cock was over Harold's mouth. 

"Your neck—"

"Is the last thing on my mind. Lean forward."

He did as he was told, bracing himself against the headboard, supporting his own weight as Harold's mouth closed around him. Professional torturers had nothing on the exquisite agony of it, balanced on the knife's edge pleasure/pain of delayed orgasm as Harold teased him with his lips, tongue and the slightest hint of teeth, one wet finger slowly working its way inside him. His legs were shaking by the time Harold urged him with one surprisingly strong hand on his thigh into fucking his mouth. Only a few strokes in he tried to move back but Harold wouldn't allow it, swallowing around him as he came deep in Harold's throat, one finger pressed hard against his prostate. 

Languid with pleasure but still insatiable for more now Harold was his, positioned himself over Harold's cock, sucking his own fingers, preparing to open himself up as much as he could, not caring how long it had been for him. 

Again, Harold stopped him. "Not without lube."

"I can take it."

"I've no doubt you could but I'm interested in your pleasure threshold, not your pain." He rested his hand on John's knee. "Later, John, when I can enjoy slowly taking you apart."

'Later' was music to his ears. He engulfed Harold in his mouth, relishing the feel of Harold's fingers digging into his knee as he came.

 

He had his head on Harold's chest, too comfortable to move even with one of Harold's shirt studs pressing into the side of his face.

"I feel distinctly overdressed for the occasion." Harold's fingers caressed the nape of his neck. 

"It depends on your point of view." His fingertips played across the small patch of skin where Harold's waistcoat and shirt had ridden up a little, delighted that Harold's spent cock twitched in response. "First, a power nap and then I'm calling the concierge desk."

"Why?" 

"He told me he could get anything I need and there's a drugstore a block away. I'm going to slowly strip you layer by layer and explore you from head to toe with every means at my disposal." There was that twitch again. "Then I'm going to ride you until you can't even remember your real name. Unless you disagree with my plans."

Harold had no objections.


End file.
